


Time Out

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Prompt Fic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 02:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a relatively straightforward conclusion to the case.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Out

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sidelined](https://archiveofourown.org/works/904512) by [methylviolet10b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b). 



> Written for JWP #31: **Just a little bit more:** Write an add-on scene to one of your own stories. This can be an addition to a previous entry you wrote for JWP. Please link the story to which you're adding on! I chose to write this as a companion piece to my JWP #29 story, [Sidelined](http://archiveofourown.org/works/904512).
> 
> Warnings: Fighting, whumpage, very little plot. **And absolutely no beta.** This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

It had all gone awry. What should have been a relatively straightforward conclusion to the case – if not entirely without risks – had, thanks to bad luck and worse management, turned into a debacle that threatened to wind up in outright disaster.  
   
It was sheer mischance that led to Watson’s fall. He tried to pass it off as inconsequential, but it did not take any great detective prowess to see that he was in a good deal of pain. His bad leg had taken the worst of his slip, and no amount of bravery could hide that he was seriously slowed. He would be a liability in the raid. It was Lestrade who made the suggestion that he remain at the dock, ready to help treat any wounded we might have. He even ordered a constable to remain stationed there so that the two might guard against any who might run so far. I thought the chance remote in the extreme, and I am certain Watson thought so too, but we were both grateful for the pretense.  
   
Only it proved no fancy at all, but horridly prophetic. A blundering sergeant sent his constables forward two minutes too soon, and what should have been a total surprise turned into a chaotic debacle. By the time we made our way indoors, the most dangerous men had already made their escape through a hidden serviceway.  
   
A way, and a route, that led them straight to the dock where Watson waited, all unknowing.  
   
For all his faults, Lestrade is quick and cool-headed in a crisis. He and three of his men were right on my heels as I ran after our quarry. We heard the sounds of the fight before we saw it. I rounded the corner and glimpsed everything all at once: the constable and another man prone on the ground; Watson, hat long since lost and coat askew, fighting off two men with his cane and getting the better of them despite the odds; and a third man coming up behind him, clutching a length of pipe in his raised left hand.    
   
“Watson!”   
  
My shouted warning was too late. The man brought his arm down even as the syllables left my lips. It was an awkward blow ( _not left handed right hand dangling by his side damaged earlier in the fight_ ), but powerful, fueled by rage.  
   
I saw my Watson fall, crumple bonelessly to the ground, his cane sliding from his suddenly nerveless grip. Every detail imprinted itself indelibly on my mind. It all happened in a moment, but that moment was enough.   
  
Truthfully, Lestrade and his three men could have handled them without my assistance. They are perfectly competent in that fashion. But I noted that none of them went directly after the man who’d struck down Watson, concentrating instead on the other two who were trying to flee. The third man was left to me.  
   
It was not difficult for me to mete out a small portion of the punishment the villain so richly deserved. The presence of Lestrade and his men, and my name, spoken as a summons, deterred me from performing a more thorough chastisement. I left the fellow in Lestrade’s charge and crouched down next to Watson. His eyes fluttered open as he struggled back towards consciousness. There was blood on his face and in his moustache, but the majority of it did not appear to be his.  
   
“Here, lean on me, my dear fellow.” I eased an arm underneath Watson’s shoulders as he struggled to sit up. My eyes darted everywhere, assessing the extent of his hurts. “How do you feel?”  
   
Watson gave me a dazed, glassy glare even as he sagged against my support. “Bludgeoned,” he said shortly, the single word crisp and clear despite everything.  
   
Tension ran out of me like a watchspring running down. “A sound observation. Shall I escort you to hospital, or will a house-call from Anstruther at Baker Street suffice, do you think?” I pretended to give him the choice, but the quality of his answer, and what I observed of him, would truly decide the matter.  
   
“The latter,” Watson sighed as he got his feet under him. “I am bruised, but not broken, Holmes. I’ll be all right.”  
   
His assessment matched my own. “Very well, my dear Watson. Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 31, 2013


End file.
